


A Case of You

by expirings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Drunk confessions, Getting drunk together, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, but also sort of fluff, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28737255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expirings/pseuds/expirings
Summary: After the fall, Will can't think about his not-yet-romantic-relationship with Hannibal unless he's drunk.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	A Case of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sowwah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sowwah/gifts).



> _You’re in my blood like holy wine,_  
>  You taste so bitter and so sweet.  
> I could drink a case of you, darling.

Will took the bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet and poured himself a glass before sitting down on the couch, basking in the warmth of the fireplace. He drank the glass quickly, listening to the cracking of the fire, the movement of the wood as it burned, crumbling into ash. The glass was quickly empty, and he did not resist getting back up to grab the bottle, returning to the couch with it in his hands. He turned it over, holding the bottle up to the light of the fire. His eyes flickered over the warm amber as he twisted off the top, took a swig. It burned his throat a little; he was drinking too quickly. At this rate, he would be dizzy and drunk in minutes. Another swig from the bottle. Then — the open and shut of the front door. 

“Will?” A familiar voice called into the house. 

Will didn’t turn at the sound of his name, but continued to drink. He’d drank nearly a fifth of the bottle already. Lazily, he wondered when he would lose the ability to stand. The sound of footsteps down the front hall echoed in his ears, faraway, like hearing the ocean in a seashell. It wasn’t until Hannibal stood in the entryway to the living room that Will turned to look at him. “You called?” Will said with a bittersweet smile, his words laced with a sarcasm not unlike that of an angry housewife. 

“You’re drinking.” Hannibal said simply, never looking even once at the bottle in Will’s hands, but directly into the man’s eyes instead. 

“I am.” 

“It may have some side effects with your medication.” 

“My shoulder hurt.” Still, that smile, pulling at the tight, pink skin of the new facial scar on his cheek. “And Tylenol isn’t always enough.” 

A sigh as Hannibal sat down on the couch beside Will. He didn’t take the bottle from Will’s hand, didn’t touch the other man, but looked at him in earnest. “You could have told me. I could have given you something stronger.” 

Will hummed, tracing his finger over the lip of the bottle, decidedly turning away from Hannibal’s gaze. “Xanax?” He asked. 

“Not after so much whiskey, no. I can’t give that to you now.” 

“Your fault for leaving me alone in a house full of drinks.” Will’s voice had lost the false sweetness. Now it teetered the line between distress and despair. Hannibal slowly took hold of the neck of the bottle, brushing against Will’s own hand. Will glanced up, and for a moment he looked furious. But he let his grip loosen, and Hannibal took hold of the bottle. Briefly, Hannibal considered raising the bottle to his own lips, before he took another look at Will — his tired eyes, the beginnings of sweat on his brow — and capped the bottle instead, setting it down on the side table. 

“Get up.” Hannibal said, standing. Will didn’t even attempt, and stayed sitting on the couch. He looked worn, battered. Somehow, he looked worse than he had in the immediate aftermath of the cliff. Though it had been a beautiful sight, the blackened blood on Will’s skin as they embraced in the moonlight, when they had managed the get to the beach after the fall, the bruises on his skin and the pain on Will’s face was masked by his lingering euphoria. But now, in this house, it seemed Will could focus on nothing else but his physical and mental pain. And Hannibal wasn’t sure what all he could do to help. “You can’t sleep on the couch without causing further injury to your shoulder.” 

“Carry me, then.” The sarcasm was back in his voice. Nevertheless, Hannibal bent down, one arm behind Will’s back, the other sliding beneath his knees. Will barely bothered to protest, simply letting out an annoyed groan as he slung his good arm over Hannibal’s shoulder to get a better grip — and so he wouldn’t be carried like a ragdoll. He carried Will to his room, laid him on the bed (a queen, with forest green blankets and golden sheets). Will looked up at Hannibal, expression unreadable. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

“If I’d let you sleep on the couch, you’d only be in pain longer. I’m happy to help.” Hannibal turned to leave the room, likely to retire to his own bedroom. 

“Wait.” Will’s eyes were shining. Hannibal wasn’t sure if it was the pain, the whiskey, his heart, or all three that compelled Will to say it: “Stay.” 

And so he did. Hannibal sat down on the bed until he heard Will’s quiet snoring minutes later. When he was sure he wouldn’t wake Will, he got up to put out the fire. He returned to Will’s room with a glass of water that he set on the nightstand, before going to his own room to sleep.

——————

**A Few Months Later**

It had been some time since Will had last gotten drunk, and it was their first time getting drunk together. It hadn’t been intentional, not really. It had started off with some wine — Hannibal’s preferred drink — the kind that was expensive, and perfectly aged, the same color as the ripe fruit it was derived from. They’d shared the bottle, finished it through a dinner that was particularly long, though that was more due to conversation than the food itself. While delicious of course, it seemed that the both of them were more enamored in what the other had to say than in what Hannibal had cooked up that night in the kitchen. 

It was, perhaps, an inevitability that to talk about the hard things they would need to be slightly inebriated for it. After months of tiptoeing around the subject of their relationship — for Will said little and Hannibal only made small comments, suggestive of his feelings but never overly flirtatious, for fear of rejection — it appeared that the climax was soon to be reached, a decision must be made. They could not wander the waves of doubt forever, and they could no longer keep harboring doubts about one another. 

From dinner and wine they went to the kitchen, washing dishes beneath the continuous guise of easy conversation, and then Will pulled out another bottle of drink; not whiskey this time, nor wine, but a bottle of tequila. Will poured himself a shot, tipping his head back as he drank it. While not entirely cheap, it was not nearly as refined a drink as the wine served with dinner, and yet Hannibal had no qualms about it when Will offered him a drink, poured it in the same shot glass he’d just drank from himself. Hannibal tipped his head back, as Will had, and chastised himself for the fleeting thought of how it was like an indirect kiss. 

They ended up sitting beside one another on the living room couch, comfortably drunk, but still aware enough to make conversation, though the tone had shifted from the lightness of the dinner table. 

Will turned to Hannibal, a small smile on his face. The scar was still visible, faded somewhat, but at least it didn’t pull as much at his skin now when he smiled. He smiled more now, without the pain to remind him of old grievances. Hannibal was happy to see it. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He said, gentle, almost hushed. Hannibal would have thought more of it had his mind not been fuzzy from the alcohol. 

“And what’s that?” Hannibal asked, and for a moment he wished he was more sober, because this seemed like a conversation he would rather have clearer memories of later. But then, he wasn’t sure if this conversation would have happened if either of them were sober. 

“Are you in love with me?” It was a question that shouldn’t have shocked either of them, and yet it did. Will had bounced Bedelia’s words around his head a thousand ways now, always wondering the extent of truth in them, if she had said it to annoy him or push him. He had wondered if there was any truth to it at all. And in the months following the fall he became more and more certain, through the careful touch that came with healing wounds, and the patience that, in his experience, only came with love. He wasn’t sure if he needed to voice the question to know the answer, but he needed to _say_ it, to put it into words and put it out between the both of them, for it to be understood by them both. 

Of course, Hannibal knew he loved Will. He’d said as much, years before, in Florence, when Bedelia had asked him what feelings he felt for Will Graham. He’d never voiced the sentiment since, never said it directly to the object of his affects himself, either. It was for fear of another rejection, though he wouldn’t admit it. He didn’t want to push, he would love silently and bask in what Will would give him, whether their relationship remained platonic or otherwise. And so, when Will asked him, suddenly (and yet not) and without hesitation in his voice, it only took him a breath before he replied simply, “Yes.” 

Will continued to smile, and they were so close, Hannibal could smell the tequila and wine on his breath. “I love you too.” Will’s words, only a little louder than a whisper, slightly slurred but genuine, caused Hannibal to smile too, his features softening at the sentiment. He had only thought of Will saying such things in his dreams and in his mind palace daydreams, a small comfort he had sometimes indulged himself in at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hearing Will say it aloud…it was almost too much. Will spoke, a sleepy drawl to his voice, “I would like to kiss you, I think.” He leaned forward, giving Hannibal no time to prepare for what would happen next, which was admittedly, not much. 

Will pressed his lips to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, not even alcohol letting him be brave enough to allow himself to kiss Hannibal properly. It would be an admission, somehow more so than the exchange of I-love-you’s. 

“Will,” Hannibal breathed, as if something so simple as a not-quite-kiss had gotten him choked up. It had. “I cannot kiss you like this.” He refused to take advantage, should Will regret this in the morning, should they never speak of such things ever again. He would accept it, because he respected him as much as he loved him. He wouldn’t break his trust again, and he would take no pleasure in taking advantage of Will’s admission of affection, especially if it so happened to be something he only felt temporarily, in a state of drunkenness. 

Will seemed to understand, blinking slowly, looking up at Hannibal’s eyes from where he’d been looking at his lips with a relaxed fondness. This was something they would have time to unravel, soberly. “No,” Will’s gentle voice was so quiet, a whisper on the edge of a purr, “you can’t.” He leaned forward again, this time, pressing a kiss to Hannibal’s cheek. “We can talk about it in the morning.” He said. 

Hannibal raised a hand, holding Will’s jaw. Will leaned into the touch. “In the morning, yes.” Hannibal agreed. “You should sleep.” 

“Mm.” Will had closed his eyes, head still tilted into Hannibal’s hand. “Carry me?” 

“I’m afraid I may not be sober enough to carry you properly. I don’t want to drop you.” Hannibal laughed softly. “I can walk you.” 

Will’s smile was serene, as Hannibal and him stood, leaning against one another, as Hannibal led Will to his bedroom. Will curled himself into the blankets, and echoed the same sentiment he had months before: “Stay.” 

“As you wish.” Hannibal murmured, climbing into bed beside Will. 

They didn’t speak further, they didn’t touch, just felt the close warmth of one another, each of them curious of what would happen in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a little bit ago as a secret santa gift for my friend, who wanted something with drunk hannigram, and now I'm finally posting it! The title and lyrics in the opening note are from the song "A Case of You" by Joni Mitchell, which was a bit of the inspiration for this fic. Please leave comments and kudos, they mean the absolute world to me!


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